A Bustle in the Hedgerow (CASMIRC Book 1) Read online

  “Hello, Miss O’Loughlin. What can I do for you?” Jack replied. He, like Corinne, had found that most law enforcement officials treated the media with disdain. He always made a concerted effort not to, which he found much more productive.

  “You can call me Corinne, please, for starters,” she replied with a forced smile. Jack sensed that she flashed this disingenuous grin with some frequency, used more as a tool for camaraderie than to express emotion. “I was wondering if you have any suspects at this time.”

  Jack paused. Though he remained cordial yet casual with the press, he always chose his words carefully. “We are exploring many leads right now, but we have no main suspects.”

  “Are Mr. or Mrs. Hollows considered suspects at this time?”

  She went there quickly, Jack thought. He knew this would be a huge case from the minute it came to CASMIRC. Not Lindberg Baby huge, but almost in that category, all because of Lamaya Hollows’ parents.

  Lamond Hollows played wide receiver for the Washington Redskins. He had grown up in the greater DC area before going to the University of Georgia on a full scholarship. Hollows stood 6’5” tall, weighed 230 pounds, and possessed natural gifts of stunning speed and exceptional hands. After his junior year, when he was undisputedly the best player on the team which lost the BCS National Championship Game to Oklahoma, he got drafted in the first round by the ‘Skins. Since then, over the last decade, he has put up very consistent statistics, averaging just over 1000 yards per season. He was widely considered one of the most dependable receivers in the league.

  His behavior off the field had been every bit as erratic as his play on the field had been consistent. At the end of his rookie year has was arrested for DUI. At the time he was dating a former Playboy Playmate, who was found passed out in the passenger seat. She was taken to a local hospital, where her blood alcohol level was 0.2 and her toxicology screen revealed a veritable cornucopia of pharmaceuticals: Ecstasy, cocaine, marijuana, and oxycodone. She required an overnight hospitalization; Hollows was imprisoned overnight for DUI and released the following day on bail. He had a few other minor run-ins with the law, including a call for a domestic disturbance when the aforementioned former Playmate threatened him with a knife.

  At the beginning of his second season in the NFL, Hollows’ coach encouraged him to spend some time doing charity work. While spending time with some patients at Children’s National Hospital, Hollows met Melissa Tidgewell, a former Miss Virginia and Miss America finalist, who subsequently had launched a moderately successful career in modeling. This encounter turned out to be the biggest influence in Hollows’ personal and professional life. He had no further encounters with the law, and his play on the field improved even further, mostly through better chemistry with his socially uptight Southern Baptist quarterback and even other less conservative teammates.

  Hollows and Melissa began dating the week after they met at Children’s National. Nine months later they discovered that she was pregnant. A few months after the birth of their daughter Lamaya, Lamond Hollows and Melissa Tidgewell got married in a small summer ceremony in the humble church in rural Virginia where Melissa grew up.

  “Both Lamond and Melissa Hollows have firm alibis for the day and time of Lamaya’s disappearance,” Jack replied to Corinne’s question. “While we remain open to all lines of investigation, at this point they are not considered suspects.”

  Corinne nodded and glanced down briefly at her notepad. “There are rumors that Lamaya was sexually assaulted. Can you confirm this?”

  Jack shook his head with an apologetic look on his face. “I can’t comment on that at this time.” Both knew he couldn’t and wouldn’t answer the question, but both understood Corinne’s need to ask it.

  Corinne nodded and let her arm fall down to her side. Her tone of voice changed, softened, from that of a calculated, information-gathering reporter to that of a caring citizen, concerned about the shortened life of a young girl. “Do you have any good leads at all at this point, Special Agent?”

  Jack looked into her green eyes and read the emotion there, genuine empathy. Subconsciously, his tone of voice changed too, more conversational, more personal. “Not really. And you can call me Jack, by the way. We still have a lot of people to question. And we’re still waiting on final autopsy reports. Hopefully we’ll find some DNA that will be extremely helpful.”

  Corinne’s eyes dropped, then turned to look at Lamond Hollows’ expansive home behind them. “How are they holding up?”

  “Honestly,” Jack shrugged, “I never know how to answer a question like that. How is someone supposed to handle something like this? They don’t seem suicidal, I don’t think, which I guess is the best one could hope for.”

  Corinne pursed her lips and nodded slowly again. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Any time,” he said.

  As he walked around to the driver’s side door, Corinne approached the curb near the passenger’s door. Still in her conversational manner, she asked, “So, if you’re waiting to try to find DNA, does that mean there was a sexual assault?”

  Jack stopped at his door and put his hands on top of the car. She’s good, he thought, and smiled at her. Corinne smiled back. Jack reached down and opened up his door. “Your hair’s different,” he said.

  Corinne got a quizzical look on her face. His comment completely took her by surprise. In that instant she realized what a wily adversary, or potential ally, Jack could be. “Excuse me?” she replied, trying consciously not to blush (which, of course, never works).

  “At the crime scene, when the body was discovered, you wore you hair curly, tied back in a pony tail. Today it’s straight but pulled back in a clip.”

  She looked down at the car window in front of her to see her reflection, as if she had forgotten how she had done her hair and didn’t believe Jack’s description. Jack was instantly reminded of a line from one of his favorite songs, “Life During Wartime” by Talking Heads, about refugee renegades; the narrator claims to have altered his hair style so often that he wouldn't even recognize himself.

  Corinne looked back from her reflection in the window to Jack. “You’re very perceptive, Special Agent Byrne.”

  “Jack,” he reminded her. “Thanks. It’s kinda in the job description.” He opened up his door and got in. He put the keys in the ignition and started the car. Corinne took a step back from the curb until Jack opened up the power window on the passenger’s door. He reached across to hand her a business card.

  “Here,” he said loudly, over the hum of the car’s engine. Corinne leaned in and took the card. “If you think of other questions, or you get any information that you think will aid the investigation, please call me. My cell is on the back.”

  “Thanks,” Corinne said. She suddenly felt the need to reciprocate, so, as he was putting the car in gear, she reached into a pocket on the covering of her notebook and pulled out a card. He began to pull away. “Jack!” she called after him, and he stopped. She took a few steps forward to hand him her card through the still-open window. “Same deal, OK?” she said.

  Jack took the card and regarded it in his hand for a brief moment. He looked back at her. “Ok, Corinne. It was nice meeting you.”

  “You too,” she said, as she leaned back out of the car before he drove away.

  Since that first meeting, Jack had always thought of Corinne as “Wartime.” He hadn’t used the term in front of her, and only rarely referred to her as that around CASMIRC. Jack found that she possessed an assertive, borderline aggressive method of acquiring information for her articles. Adding that to the esoteric song reference made “Wartime” a fitting nickname.

  Still sitting there, overlooking the Reflecting Pond, Jack decided to return Corinne’s call a little later. He needed to get back to CASMIRC and have a talk with Dylan.

  As Jack stood up to head to his car, he recalled his Trading Places analogy from the beginning of his morning meeting. Though he never pictured himself in an Eddie Mu
rphy role, that certainly was the one Johnson and Prince—Mortimer and Winston (Mortimer, not Montgomery! Jack remembered)— had thrust him into. Rupert Schultz would get cast as the Dan Akroyd character. At least he’ll get to whore around with a hot Jamie Lee Curtis, Jack thought, before she needed the yogurt to maintain regular bowels, his mind added, amusing himself. Little did he know that Rupert Schultz would indeed spend the rest of his short life whoring around, mostly with women far less hot than Jamie Lee Curtis.

  23

  “Your co-pay today is five dollars,” the receptionist told Vicki.

  Vicki reached in her wallet, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to the spritely receptionist behind the desk. While having a husband employed by the FBI had its many disadvantages, it did provide reliable and very affordable health insurance, which had always pleased Vicki.

  Jonah had developed some significant seasonal allergies. He actually had one previous episode a little over a year ago where his allergies moved into his lungs, causing him to have wheezing and such severe breathing difficulties that he required several hours of aerosolized breathing treatments in their local emergency department. He still had an albuterol inhaler at home to use in case of emergency, but luckily he hadn’t needed it since that episode. As a result, though, he’s been coming to see his pediatric allergist Dr. Franklin every four months for the past fifteen months.

  The receptionist took the cash, filed it in her drawer, and typed a few short bursts into her keyboard in front of her. “While your receipt prints, would you like to schedule Jonah’s next appointment?”

  “Sure,” Vicki replied. She had seen this receptionist for every visit, but did not know her name. She sneaked a peak at her name tag. “APRIL,” it said, in all caps. In smaller font below it read “Reception.” Fitting name, Vicki thought. April. Springy.

  “So….” April began, scanning through the computerized scheduling program. “Three months from now would be July. How does the 20th sound? It’s a Tuesday.”

  “Perfect,” Vicki replied. Jonah stood quietly at her side, trying to read the “Patient’s Bill of Rights” sign posted on the wall beside April’s counter. Vicki surmised that he could only get maybe a quarter of the words, but she reveled in his inquisitive mind’s efforts to try to read the document.

  The receptionist handed Vicki her receipt and an appointment card. “There you go. See you in July.”

  “Thanks,” Vicki said.

  “Bye, Jonah,” April said, peeking over her counter to wave at him.

  Jonah looked up from his reading, smiled, and waved back. “Bye, April!” he said with enthusiasm.

  Vicki tried not to look astonished. How did Jonah remember her name? she thought. Smart kid….

  Dr. Franklin’s office was near the end of a strip mall with a large parking lot. As they opened the glass door and walked outside, Vicki and Jonah nearly bumped into someone walking down the sidewalk in a bit of a hurry.

  “Oh, excuse me,” Vicki said.

  The tall, gangly man wearing jeans and a hideously ugly sweater slowed his rapid pace to face Vicki. “No worries, ma’m,” the man said. He then nodded and proceeded into the storefront beside the allergist’s. The sign hanging in front of the store read “Family Snapshot” in fancy script, with “Portrait Studio” underneath in a more traditional font. Vicki remembered that this unit had previously housed a sewing shop, offering both tailoring and other amendments, as well as sewing and knitting supplies. The last time Vick brought Jonah here, “Needles and Such” had closed and the space was undergoing renovations; this was the first time she had seen it open. Intrigued, she decided to walk in and pick up a brochure before driving home.

  24

  After grabbing a turkey wrap for lunch at his favorite deli, Jack got back to CASMIRC shortly after 2:00. He’d had ample time to gather his thoughts in preparation for his meeting with Harringer. He dropped off his suit jacket at his desk and went to Harringer’s office. Through the window that overlooked the rest of the department, Jack could see Harringer busily writing notes on a yellow legal pad to the right of his computer.

  When Jack knocked on the door, Harringer looked up over the rims of his reading glasses. He deliberately focused his attention back to the computer and continued to write. “One second, Jack,” he said slowly. Harringer hoped to convey a sense that—for him, at least— the investigation into these children’s murders took precedence over Jack’s personal life. If Jack hadn’t perceived this message initially, it became clear after Harringer let him stand there for almost two minutes in silence.

  Finally, Harringer put down his felt-tip pen, took off his glasses, and rotated in his chair to face Jack at the threshold. He held out his hand toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat,” he said impatiently, as if Jack should have seated himself sooner.

  He’s not in a good mood, and it may be because of me, Jack thought. He had known Harringer long enough to recognize his mood swings. This won’t be easy. Jack entered the office and sat down. He looked up and met Harringer’s eyes.

  “Dylan, I need to talk to you about a unique opportunity that has come my way,” Jack began. With that, Harringer leaned back in his chair and tilted his head, emanating disapproval. Yet he remained silent.

  “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, really,” Jack continued. He had already deviated from the script he had lain out in his head earlier today. “I have been approached by relatively high-ranking members of the Democratic Party…” He paused briefly, thinking of meeting The President earlier that day, but refraining from name-dropping. “…To run for a position in the U.S. Congress.” He didn’t want to specifically mention Schultz or the actual position he would seek. Though he knew he could trust Harringer, he felt it was still too premature to offer specifics regarding the privileged information from his morning meeting.

  Harringer tilted his head to the other side and briefly raised his eyebrows, but still he said nothing. Jack could not discern if this last statement had impressed him or bored him.

  “The campaign will not kick off in earnest for a few weeks, but, as you know, once you get embroiled in a case, it’s pretty difficult to extricate yourself out of it.”

  Harringer broke his silence. “Embroiled and then extricated, huh?”

  Jack recognized that Harringer was making fun of him, but he let it go. Perhaps he should not have spent so much time thinking about what he would say. “So, I would like to put in my two-weeks’ notice and would prefer to work on some back logs and finishing up other business rather than get…embroiled… in this new case.”

  Harringer didn’t flinch. Not one muscle on his taut face moved. For a second Jack thought he had blacked out briefly and Harringer had been replaced by a wax statue of himself. With remarkable detail¸ Jack thought.

  Jack remained silent as well. He had said what he needed to say. Harringer would respond eventually. In time. Soon, probably. I would hate to be interrogated by him, Jack thought. He could get someone to confess just by staring at him.

  Finally Harringer sat forward in his chair, his muscular hands clasped together in front of him. He looked at Jack inquisitively. “Rupert Schulz?” he asked.

  This was not the response Jack had expected, but he tried not to act startled. He quickly gathered himself and nodded. “Yes.”

  “That guy’s been a fuck-up since he was old enough to drive. How he ever got elected is beyond me,” Harringer mumbled, mostly to himself. He sat up straighter and addressed Jack more properly. “Well, Jack… I’m saddened by this. I think that you are a great investigator and you possess natural talents that, frankly, we won’t replace any time soon. We’ve had a number of cases over the last several years that I fear would not have been solved, at least not as quickly, had you not been here.”

  Jack realized that Harringer again attempted to apply a guilt trip, his second in two days. He foresaw something like this, though, and had prepared himself to withstand it in silence. Yet it
started to work anyway. Jack began to feel guilty about abandoning his post. Surely Harringer and his crew would thrive without him, but he couldn’t help feeling remorseful about leaving.

  Harringer knew that lingering on this sentiment only made the effort more transparent, so he continued. “But, I know you feel that you have bigger fish to fry, and I wish you luck with these endeavors. ‘Senator Byrne’ does have a nice ring to it.” With this, Harringer smiled for the first time since Jack knocked on his door. “Take your two weeks to finalize stuff that needs finalizing. Just submit your formal letter of resignation to me by tomorrow. From there we’ll start the exit interview process, probably early next week.”

  “Yes, sir. Thanks, Dylan.”

  “Of course, Jack.” Harringer stood up and extended his hand. “Congratulations. I hope everything works out great for you. You’ll have my vote, by the way.”

  Jack smiled as he shook hands with his now-former boss. “I hope to serve you well,” was the best thing he could think to say.

  25

  On his way home from the office, Jack remembered to call Corinne O’Loughlin. He put in his Bluetooth, found her cell in his contact list, and called her back. She answered on the third ring.

  “Special Agent Byrne,” she answered.

  “Hello, Corinne. And it’s Jack, remember?” he responded.

  “I remember,” she replied. Was that… angst in her voice? he thought. He quickly tried to think about why she would be angry with him but came up empty. He made a mental note to contemplate this further after the phone conversation.

  “How have you been?” Jack asked cordially.

  “Quite well. How about you?”

  “Well, too. Busy.”

  “Yeah, I saw you making some appearances about your book. Congratulations on that.”